Hearing Light
by Ted L Glines

Butterfly soaring in Katmandu
stirs the longing soul in you
you give a tender loving grin
angels spin on the head of a pin
the sun on high in his finest hour
knows butterflies have this power.

Blossom opens, embracing the dawn
new mother nuzzled by her fawn
your heart opens wide, ever so wide
you feel her love deeply down inside
you know the spirit of even a stone
amidst all this, is never alone.

Feeling lost in self rejection
seeking a hint - devine connection
we rant and scream and slam the door
and damn the world forever more
only to learn - too late it seems
that our fate is locked in a buttterfly's dreams
and after our tantrum runs its tide
we find our God never did hide
and - listening now - our spirit hears
the gentle music of the spheres.

Now angels dance upon our pin
giving us such a jolly grin
and the song we sing deep in you
sends a butterfly soaring in Katmandu.

Home
by Ted L Glines

That little birdhouse standing there
feeling lonesome grey and bare
its perch has long since worn away
no birdies ever come to play
no cheeping baby birds at rest
just a mournful empty nest
remembering olden days so blessed
(a lack which leaves me sorely pressed)
a little dowel - mayhap a stick
would make a perch - that's the trick
and add some bright and cheery paint
golden trim to make it quaint
let's scatter seeds upon the ground
so the birds will come around
to  make their happy tweety sound
in this "new place" they have found.

Author's Notes: Drat, now that I have immortalized that old dilapidated birdhouse (I  drive by it every day), I'll  have to go fix it.  Grump, mutter mutter, gripe and grump (sneaky secret grin  'cause  no one's looking).

Haunted
by Ted L Glines

The house was only
mortar, stone, and wood
we knew that nothing evil
lived there - never could
and that was that.

Twenty years ago tomorrow
on a dark and moon-less night
the old man stabbed his wife
but no one heard her plight,
as she died he played the organ
in the windowed tower room
then in a final crescendo
he threw himself to his doom.

Twenty years the house stood empty
no one went there anymore
widows spoke of it in whispers
scaring children with its lore,
no one dares to venture close
this old house is made of fright
for they say the organ plays
in the middle of the night.

And where the portrait used to hang
cob-webbed painting of his wife,
blood runs down the stucco wall
as it did one time in life,
it is then the organ plays
with no fingers on the keys
only ending with a scream
as his maddened spirit flees.

We know there is no evil
nor anything but good
in an old abandoned house
made of mortar, stone, and wood.